


Martha's Room

by Batsymomma11



Series: The Details of Being A Dad [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Batfamily Feels, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Childhood Memories, Family Bonding, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Music, Tim Drake is Genius
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 16:25:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16245434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsymomma11/pseuds/Batsymomma11
Summary: There is a room in Wayne Manor that used to be Martha Wayne's place to make music. Now, it's Tim's. Bruce has a great deal of feelings about that.





	Martha's Room

**Author's Note:**

> I made Martha Wayne an accomplished pianist in this fic. I have no idea if that's canon, but it's probably not. Also, it is also probably not canon that Tim can play piano too. For the sake of this story, he does.  
> I do not own DC or its characters. But I do own this story.  
> Enjoy!!

Wayne Manor had a music room.

It wasn’t well known. Nor did many of the Wayne men visit the room, as it had no other purpose save a quiet space to be carefully dusted and polished. But many rooms in the manor could be used as quiet spaces. And many sat just as empty, in a sober nod to what was and would never be again.

The music room was on the main floor. A showpiece, in its own right. It had vaulted ceilings with large panoramic windows that let in the afternoon sunlight so the wood glowed bronze and the ceilings a faded crème. There were family busts sprinkled between built-in bookshelves that housed thousands of books. On music theory, history, and culture. There was an entire wall simply dedicated to reams and reams of sheet music.

None of it was ever moved or picked up or read. It was left in pristine condition to be dusted when the occasion called for it. But nothing more.

Martha Wayne had been a dedicated pianist and had spent nearly every afternoon of her married life, in the music room, pouring over her music. In many ways, the room had simply become Martha’s. In many ways, it was still her room.  

Bruce had the perfect mental image of how his mother used to play the glossy black grand piano that sat as a central focus in the airy space. She’d sit straight-backed with elegant aristocratic posture, her long fingers flowing over the ivory keys with an expression that often looked—lost. Lost in the music, perhaps.

If Bruce was home in the afternoons, a rare treat, he would meander towards the back of the house, lean against the always open French doors that showcased the room, and he’d watch the sun set over the memories of that room. He’d trace the lines of the sturdy black legs on the piano bench and remember sitting beneath the giant box overhead with his father’s cinnamon gummies, stuffed in his pockets. He’d remember how he listened to his mother playing something classical and coiffed. Gentle, soothing melodies that Bruce couldn’t listen to now without shedding tears.

She’d liked Debussy and Bach best. But she always listened to Mozart when she was feeling happy. Sometimes, it would be Tchaikovsky or Brahms. On the days when it was Vivaldi, Bruce would be invited to sit on the padded bench with his mother and she’d let him put his hands on top of hers to feel the delicate thrum of tendon and skin flex over the keys. She’d let him pretend he was an accomplished pianist pulling all the strings. And she’d smile at him, pressing kisses to his cheek, enveloping him in the scent of her Chanel perfume. She’d bring him into her world and hold him tight enough to make him want what she had.

When he closed his eyes and sat at the bench now, Bruce could sometimes still feel the ghost of lips on his cheek. He could sometimes still smell her in the heat of a summer afternoon. He could sometimes hear her laughing.

Bruce never expected to find any of the boys in the music room.

It wasn’t that it was off-limits, because that was far from the case. But none of his sons had ever expressed any interest in music, on that level, as far as he knew. He’d mentioned in passing the music room before and the vast array of resources it provided. The acoustics were rich and the lighting inspirational. But in all the years since he’d first brought a child into the manor, none of them had spent a significant amount of time in the room or mentioned any interest in becoming accomplished on an instrument, least of all, the piano.

He’d quietly accepted that his mother’s piano would continue to be a relic of the past. Something to anchor a few of his best memories to.

But he could hear the phantom strains of music pouring out the doors, spilling down the hall and into his blood.

And like a sailor to a siren, Bruce followed the song.

He knew it was coming from the music room, but there something about not knowing who was playing the piano that had his heart clutching and his stomach bottoming out as he strode in the direction of it. He slowed at the doors, which were wide open and inviting, hesitating just out of sight to simply—listen.

It was a piece he’d not heard before. And Bruce knew the classics well enough. He swallowed thickly as emotion rushed up his throat and the image of his mother came so easily it was difficult not to turn and look. Because when he looked, he was certain the image would be broken. Her ghost would fizzle and whoever was really seated at the piano would slip in its place.

Eventually, Bruce couldn’t wait any longer. He inhaled softly, straightened his shoulders as if to shore up his strength, then turned into the music room and was stopped altogether again.

The music didn’t stop, the notes never faltered, and Bruce stared openly, eyes glued to Timothy who was pouring himself into the song he was playing. His eyes were closed, face serene, hands flying over keys in a melody that was at once gentle as it was melancholy.

When it became apparent that Tim had no idea he was being watched, simply because he was too engrossed in what he was creating, Bruce had no intention of stopping him. He moved silently to the opposite end of the room where a chaise and a pair of matching chairs were seated, as if ready for a private concert. He sat stiffly, breath coming out choppy, heart lodged up into his throat and listened to Timothy for long minutes.

More than once he was forced to swipe at his eyes to prevent the moisture there from spilling.

He didn’t stop for another thirty minutes and when he finally did, Bruce watched raptly as Timothy opened his eyes as if waking from a dream. He sighed softly, closing the lid on the keys, smiling lovingly as he stroked both hands over the wood, then he finally looked up above the lid of the piano and saw Bruce.

The smile faded.

“I didn’t know you played,” Bruce spoke carefully, but it came out hoarse with emotion. There was so much feeling and nakedness in that one sentence, that Timothy stood and was around the piano abruptly. His eyes were wide and face pinched with worry.

“Bruce, are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

Timothy raised a brow, “You don’t look fine.”

Bruce felt his gaze tug back to the piano and his eyes burned again. He didn’t want to lose control. He didn’t want to fall apart in front of his son, but he wanted to tell him what this meant to him. He wanted to say how grateful he was for this. “You play beautifully. Why have you never mentioned anything?”

“I—” Tim’s face flooded with color and he shifted awkwardly, “I’m self-taught. It started out as just a sort of hobby, then I really started to enjoy it. I got better at it and it became a—a release for me. I play when I want to decompress. It helps slow my mind down.”

“How long?”

“A few years.”

Bruce blinked up at Tim and shook his head, “You’re amazing.”

“I—uh—” Tim swallowed, “Thanks. I’m not that good.”

“Yes, you are.”

“How would you know?” Tim scoffed, humor twisting his mouth, “You’re not a closet pianist, are you?”

Bruce’s gaze fell to the floor, his hands knotting in his lap. “No. My mother was.”

“Oh.”

“It’s alright.”

“B, I’m sorry—I should’ve asked—”

“No,” Bruce pushed to a stand, reaching for Tim’s shoulders to grip him hard, “No. I can’t tell you how nice it was to come down this hall and hear you playing. To hear music come out of this room. It’s been far too many years.”

Tim’s blue eyes widened, but he kept silent, as if he understood Bruce needed to say more. He needed to share it with someone else other than himself and Bruce was so grateful in that moment for Tim’s attention to detail and his quick mind. He’d always been the best of the boys at reading people, at seeing what was beneath an expression without having to have it spelled out.

“My mother used to play that piano every day. She’d let me sit with her and she didn’t mind if I interrupted or got in the way. Sometimes I’d just listen. Sometimes she’d try and teach me. But I didn’t have the knack for it she did. I have the basics down. I can play a little with a great deal of mistakes on my part, but she tried to pass it on to me. I never thought—” Bruce cleared his throat and forced himself to look Tim in the eyes. “I never thought I’d be able to pass music on to anyone. But you’ve got a gift Tim. And I—I’m very proud of you.”

Tim’s mouth opened to say something, then closed as the ruddy blush from before took over clear to the tips of his ears. He dipped his chin and smiled weakly and his voice came out as rough as Bruce’s when he spoke. “Thanks B. That means a lot to me.”

Nodding, Bruce sighed, stepping back to give them both space then wandered over to the piano to run a hand over the grain of wood. “What were you playing? I’ve never heard it before.”

Tim blinked, then smiled, wide and toothy and relaxed again, “Divenire. It’s by Ludovico Einaudi. I’ve been working on that one for a while.”

“You memorized it? I didn’t see any sheet music.”

Tim shrugged, “Yeah.”

Bruce lifted a brow, “Could you play it again? Or do you have something else memorized?”

“I could play something else. The last piece I did was by Dustin O’Halloran. Do you know him?”

“I do.”

Tim walked back to the piano bench, opened the lid on the keys and sat with an ease that spoke of how often he’d done it. Bruce found himself wondering how he’d missed this. How he’d missed that his son was a brilliant musician right beneath his nose. It felt like a waste that he’d not borne witness to it sooner.

“Do you wanna sit?”

Bruce looked up at Tim and frowned, “Pardon?”

“On the bench. Do you want to sit with me while I play?”

The twist in his chest was razor sharp and sweet. A pain and a pleasure at once. Wordlessly, Bruce accepted the offer and took the place beside Tim. He started in on the more familiar song and Bruce felt his mouth tipping into a smile as he let his eyes close.

His mother would have been proud. She would have loved Tim. And she would have loved this.  


End file.
